The apartment was dark when I turned the key.
I stood in the doorway for a second, letting my eyes adjust. Twelve forty-three on the microwave clock. The kitchen smelled like nothing. No coffee, no takeout, no him.
I dropped my coat on the chair and set the small crystal award on the counter. Editor of the Year. The magazine had engraved my name on the base in a clean, serious font. At the gala, the seat next to mine had stayed empty all night. My colleagues smiled at me with that careful softness people use on widows. One of them squeezed my shoulder when I went up to accept. I smiled back. I always smile back.
I poured a glass of water and didn't drink it.
Dante came home at two.
I heard the elevator first, then the soft click of his shoes on the marble. He walked to the kitchen island like a man who had nothing to explain. His tie was loose. His collar smelled like a perfume I didn't wear.
He put a small dark-blue box on the counter between us.
Bulgari.
"Something came up," he said. He didn't look at me when he said it. He looked at the box, like the box would do the talking for him.
I waited. I am very good at waiting.
He poured himself a glass of scotch, drank half of it, and walked past me toward the bedroom. He didn't ask about the gala. He didn't ask about the award sitting six inches from his hand.
I picked up the box and followed him.
In the bedroom, I opened the bottom drawer of the nightstand. Inside were four other boxes. Tiffany, robin's egg blue. Cartier, red. Van Cleef, cream. Harry Winston, deep navy. I had arranged them in order. I knew which anniversary each one belonged to. I knew which broken promise.
I set the Bulgari next to the Harry Winston. Five boxes in a row, like teeth.
Dante was already brushing his teeth. He didn't glance at the drawer. He has never, in five years, glanced at the drawer.
I closed it gently and went to sleep on my side of the bed.
***
The Editor-in-Chief called me into his office before I had finished my coffee.
He didn't stand when I walked in. He gestured at the chair, then folded his hands on the desk like a man arranging cutlery.
"Allie. There's been a development with the Milan fellowship."
I sat down. I straightened the edge of his desk calendar by half an inch. A habit I don't like to notice in myself.
"The decision has been made to reassign it," he said. "To Ivanna Cook."
The radiator ticked twice. Outside, a horn honked on Fifth.
"Howard Enterprises is a primary sponsor," he went on, eyes on his hands. "Their office made a suggestion. These things, you understand, are bigger than any one of us."
I watched his mouth move. Eighteen months. I had cultivated that fellowship for eighteen months. Sources in Milan. Three drafts of the pitch. A binder of research on my desk that he had personally praised.
"Did you fight for me at all?" I asked.
He opened his mouth. He closed it. He looked at the window.
That was my answer.
I stood up and left without thanking him for his time. Small mercies.
***
Ivanna arrived in my office at three with two coffees she knew I wouldn't drink.
She wore red. She always wore red on days she thought she had won.
"Allie," she said, setting one cup on my desk. "I just wanted to come by personally. The fellowship transition, you know. I told Dante how generous you've been about it. He said he wasn't surprised. He said you're always so understanding."
I didn't pick up the coffee.
"Is there a question, Ivanna?"
Her smile thinned. She leaned a hip against my desk and let her fingers trail along the stack of files on the corner—the Milan binder, right there on top.
"I just hope there are no hard feelings."
"There aren't."
"Good." Her hand moved. The files slid. The whole stack hit the floor with a flat slap.
Then she did.
She threw herself backward into the open doorway with a cry that was too clean, too rehearsed, her palm flying up to her cheek as if I had struck her. "Allie—why—"
The hallway went still. Two interns froze. A copy editor stepped out of the breakroom.
The elevator dinged before I could draw a breath.
Dante.
He must have been in the building already. He must have been waiting.
He crossed the floor in six strides, dropped to one knee beside her, and gathered her against his chest like something precious and broken. He didn't look at me. Then he did.
"You vicious—" His voice was low. The whole floor heard it. "What is wrong with you?"
I looked at him crouched there on the carpet of my own office. I looked at her face pressed into his lapel, her eyes open, watching me.
Something inside me did not break.
It set.
I walked to my desk. I opened the bottom drawer. The envelope had been in there for four months. I laid it in front of him on the blotter.
"Sign them or don't," I said. "I'm done either way."
I picked up my notebook. My pen. My coat.
I left the award on his desk on the way out. I left everything else.
The revolving door spat me onto the sidewalk and the cold Manhattan air hit my face like the first honest thing I'd felt all year.
I didn't look back.
